Chapter Sixteen.
At the White Hart.
There was a good deal of bustle going on in the kitchen of the White Hart, the little hostelry at Staplehurst. It was “fair day,” and fairs were much more important things in the olden time than now. A fair now-a-days is an assemblage of some dozen booths, where the chief commodities are toys and sweetmeats, with an attempt at serious business in the shape of a little crockery or a few tin goods. But fairs in 1557 were busy places where many people laid in provisions for the season, or set themselves up with new clothes. The tiny inn had as many guests as it could hold, and the principal people in the town had come together in its kitchen—country inns had no parlours then—to debate all manner of subjects in which they were interested. The price of wool was an absorbing topic with many; the dearness of meat and general badness of trade were freely discussed by all. Amongst them bustled Mistress Final, the landlady of the inn, a widow, and a comely, rosy-faced, fat, kindly woman, assisted by her young son Ralph, her two daughters, Ursula and Susan, and her maid Dorcas. Cakes and ale were served to most of the customers; more rarely meat, except in the form of pies, which were popular, or of bacon, with or without accompanying eggs.
The company in the kitchen were all more or less acquainted with each other, two persons excepted. Those who were not Staplehurst people had come in from the surrounding villages, or from Cranbrook at the farthest. But these two men were total strangers, and they did not mix with the villagers, but sat, in travelling garb, at one corner of the kitchen, listening, yet rarely joining in the talk which went on around them. One of them, indeed, seemed wrapped in his own thoughts, and scarcely spoke, even to his companion. He was a tall spare man, with a grave and reserved expression of countenance. The other was shorter and much more lively in his motions, was evidently amused by the conversation in his vicinity, and looked as if he would not object to talk if the opportunity were given him.
Into this company came Emmet Wilson and Collet Pardue. Both had brought full baskets from the fair, which they set down in a corner, and turned to amuse themselves with a little chat with their friends.
“Any news abroad?” asked Collet. She dearly loved a bit of news, which she would retail to her quiet husband as they sat by the fireside after the day’s work was done.
“Well, not so much,” said John Banks, the mason, to whom Collet had addressed herself. He was the brother of Mr Benden’s servant Mary. “Without you call it news to hear what happed at Briton’s Mead last night.”
“Why, whatso? Not the mistress come home, trow?”
“Alack, no such good hap! Nay, only Tabby came down to see the master, and brought her claws with her.”
“Scrat him well, I hope?”
“Whipped him, and laid on pretty hard to boot.”
“Why, you never mean it, real true, be sure!”
“Be sure I do. He’s a-bed this morrow.”
“I have my doubts if there’ll be many tears shed in Staplehurst,” said Mistress Final, laughing, as she went past with a plate of biscuit-bread, which, to judge from the receipt for making it, must have been very like our sponge cake.
“He’s none so much loved of his neighbours,” remarked Nicholas White, who kept a small ironmonger’s shop, to which he added the sale of such articles as wood, wicker-work, crockery, and musical instruments.
The shorter and livelier of the travellers spoke for the first time.
“Pray you, who is this greatly beloved master?”
John Fishcock, the butcher, replied. “His name is Benden, and the folks be but ill-affected to him for his hard ways and sorry conditions.”
“Hard!—in what manner, trow?”
“Nay, you’d best ask my neighbour here, whose landlord he is.”
“And who’d love a sight better to deal with his mistress than himself,” said Collet, answering the appeal. “I say not he’s unjust, look you, but he’s main hard, be sure. A farthing under the money, or a day over the time, and he’s no mercy.”
“Ah, the mistress was good to poor folks, bless her!” said Banks.
“She’s dead, is she?” asked the stranger.
“No, she’s away,” replied Banks shortly.
“Back soon?” suggested the stranger.
John Banks had moved away. There was a peculiar gleam in his questioner’s eye which he did not admire. But Collet, always unsuspicious, and not always discreet, replied without any idea of reserve.
“You’d best ask Dick o’ Dover that, for none else can tell you.”
“Ah, forsooth!” replied the stranger, apparently more interested than ever. “I heard as we came there were divers new doctrine folks at Staplehurst. She is one of them, belike?—and the master holds with the old? ’Tis sore pity folks should not agree to differ, and hold their several opinions in peace.”
“Ah, it is so,” said unsuspicious Collet.
“Pray you, who be the chief here of them of the new learning? We be strangers in these parts, and should be well a-paid to know whither we may seek our friends. Our hostess here, I am aware, is of them; but for others I scarce know. The name of White was dropped in mine hearing, and likewise Fishcock; who be they, trow? And dwells there not a certain Mistress Brandridge, or some such?—and a Master Hall or Ball—some whither in this neighbourhood, that be friends unto such as love not the papistical ways?”
“Look you now, I’ll do you to wit all thereanent,” said Collet confidentially. “For Fishcock, that was he that first spake unto you; he is a butcher, and dwelleth nigh the church. Nicholas White, yon big man yonder, that toppeth most of his neighbours, hath an ironmongery shop a-down in the further end of the village. Brandridge have we not: but Mistress Bradbridge—”
“Mistress, here’s your master a-wanting you!” came suddenly in John Banks’ clear tones; and Collette, hastily lifting her basket, and apologising for the sudden termination of her usefulness, departed quickly.
“She that hath hastened away is Mistress Wilson, methinks?” asked the inquisitive traveller of the person next him, who happened to be Mary Banks.
Mary looked quietly up into the animated face, and glanced at his companion also before replying. Then she said quietly—
“No, my master; Mistress Wilson is not now here.”
“Then what name hath she?”
“I cry you mercy, Master; I have no time to tarry.”
The grave man in the corner gave a grim smile as Mary turned away.
“You took not much by that motion, Malledge,” he said in a low tone.
“I took a good deal by the former,” replied Malledge, with a laugh. “Beside, I lacked it not; I wis well the name of my useful friend that is now gone her way. I did but ask to draw on more talk. But one matter I have not yet.”
These words were spoken in an undertone, audible only to the person to whom they were addressed; and the speaker turned back to join in the general conversation. But before they had obtained any further information, the well-known sounds of the hunt came through the open door, and the whole company turned forth to see the hunters and hounds go by. Most of them did not return, but dispersed in the direction of their various homes, and from the few who did nothing was to be drawn.
John Banks walked away with Nicholas White. “Saw you those twain?” he asked, when they had left the White Hart a little way behind them. “The strange men? Ay, I saw them.”
“I misdoubt if they come for any good purpose.”
“Ay so?” said Nicholas in apparent surprise. “What leads you to that thought, trow?”
“I loved not neither of their faces; nor I liked not of their talk. That shorter man was for ever putting questions anent the folks in this vicinage that loved the Gospel; and Collet Pardue told him more than she should, or I mistake.”
Nicholas White smiled. “I reckoned you were in some haste to let her wit that her master wanted her,” he said.
“I was that. I was in a hurry to stop her tongue.”
“Well!” said the ironmonger after a short pause, “the Lord keep His own!”
“Amen!” returned the mason. “But methinks, friend, the Lord works not many miracles to save even His own from traps whereinto they have run with their eyes open.”
They walked on for a few minutes in silence. “What think you,” asked White, “is come of Mistress Benden?”
“Would I wist!” answered Banks. “Master Hall saith he’ll never let be till he find her, without he be arrest himself.”
“That will he, if he have not a care.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Banks, “that those two in the White Hart could not have told us an’ they would.”
“Good lack!—what count you then they be?”
“I reckon that they be of my Lord Cardinal’s men.”
“Have you any ground for that fantasy?”
“Methought I saw the nether end of a mitre, broidered on the sleeve of the shorter man, where his cloak was caught aside upon the settle knob. Look you, I am not sure; but I’m ’feared lest it so be.”
“Jack, couldst thou stand the fire?”
“I wis not, Nichol. Could you?”
“I cast no doubt I could do all things through Christ, nor yet that without Christ I could do nothing.”
“It may come close, ere long,” said Banks gravely.
The two travellers, meanwhile, had mounted their horses, and were riding in the direction of Goudhurst. A third man followed them, leading a baggage-horse. As they went slowly along, the taller man said—
“Have you all you need, now, Malledge?”
“All but one matter, Master Sumner—we know not yet where Hall dwelleth. Trust me, but I coveted your grave face, when we heard tell of Tabby horsewhipping yon Benden!”
“He hath his demerits,” said the sumner,—that is, the official who served the summonses to the ecclesiastical courts.
“Of that I cast no doubt; nor care I if Tabby thrash him every day, for my part. When come we in our proper persons, to do our work?”
“That cannot I tell. We must first make report to my Lord of Dover.”
A young girl and a little child came tripping down the road. The short man drew bridle and addressed them.
“Pray you, my pretty maids, can you tell me where dwelleth Mistress Bradbridge? I owe her a trifle of money, and would fain pay the same.”
“Oh yes, sir!” said little Patience Bradbridge eagerly; “she’s my mother. She dwells in yon white house over the field yonder.”
“And Master Roger Hall, where dwelleth he?”
Penuel Pardue hastily stopped her little friend’s reply.
“Master Hall is not now at home, my masters, so it should be to no purpose you visit his house. I give you good-morrow.”
“Wise maid!” said Malledge with a laugh, when the girls were out of hearing. “If all were as close as thou, we should thrive little.”
“They are all in a story!” said the sumner.
“Nay, not all,” replied Malledge. “We have one to thank. But truly, they are a close-mouthed set, the most of them.”